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HORACE WALPOLE 




A ROMANTIC DRAMA 




BY 




GUSTAVE SIMONSON 




Ciass _j 



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Book-, I g 8, H 6 
Copyright W.. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



HORACE WALPOLE 



A ROMANTIC DRAMA 
IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 



GUSTAVE SIMONSON 



NEW YORK 

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY 
1913 






Copyright, 1913, bt 
GUSTAVE SIMONSON 



^i-0 3395 9 



CHARACTERS 

Sir Robert Walpole, Prime Minister. 

Horace Walpole, M.P., His son; about twenty- 
five years old. 

Captain Henry Conway, Friend of Horace. 

George Selwyn, M.P., Friend of Horace, about 
twenty-five years of age, like Conway. 

Lord Chesterfield, About forty- five years of age. 

Lord C Arlington, A Peer; Jacobite, in corre- 
spondence with the Pretender, and the chief 
organizer of the projected rising in London. 

Lord Haxton, Jacobite. 

Sir Percy Campbell, Scotch Jacobite gentleman. 

FiREBRACE Pendrel, Jttcobite. 

Jenks, Young servant of Sir Robert Walpole. 

Lady Virginia Carlington, Daughter of Lord 
Carlington; about nineteen years old, ardent 
Jacobite, proud, in love with Horace. 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, About forty- five 
years of age. 

Lady Townley, About twenty-five years of age. 

Guests of Lady Townley ; Jacobite Gentlemen; and 
Soldiers in Act II. 



The scene in Act I is a parlour in Lady Town- 
ley's house in London. 

The scene in Act II is a private room of Lord 
Carlington's mansion in London. 

The scene in Act III is a private room in Sir 
Robert Walpole's residence in London. 

The scene in Act IV is a large room at 
Stravpberry Hill, Horace Walpole's home near 
Twickenham. 

The time of the action of Act I is 1745 (the 
year of the last Jacobite rebellion), just after 
Prince Charles's occupation of Derby, when his 
success was believed by many to be probable ; thus 
leading to the projected rising in London, which 
conspiracy involves the participants in disaster. 
— Act II occurs in the night, a day after the time 
of the first act. — Act III about four weeks later. 
— Act IV (an epilogue), fifty years later. 



ACT I 

Scene. — Parlour at Lady Townley's, with chairs, 
tables, etc. In the hack-ground, card-table. 

[Present: Horace, Carlington, Selwyn, Chester- 
field; Lady Virginia; Lady Montagu; Lady 
Townley ; Haxton; Campbell; and Guests — 
in the course of the act Captain Conway and 
Sir Robert Walpole.'\ 

Chesterfield. You have again won, Ladj Mon- 
tagu, your cards seem to be as irresistible as your 
wit. 

Lady Montagu. I fear that our victory was due 
entirely to our luck, combined, of course, with Mr. 
Selwyn's matchless skill. 

Lady Toivnley. Nonsense ! Mr. Selwyn never 
had any skill, in spite of my desperate attempts to 
teach him the game. Besides, he was half asleep 
during the entire last hand, lie played sc» badly. 

Selwyn. How cruelly unjust you are, Lady 
Townley ; you begrudge your vanquished slave the 
only satisfaction which you deign to let him have, 
of defeating you at cards, although conquered 
in 

Lady Townley. Sleepy simpleton, you nodded 
while dealing, and almost snored while taking the 
tricks. 

5 



6 HORACE WALPOLE 

Chesterfield. No, Lady Townley, I must defend 
my sentimental friend — his eyes were wide open, 
fixed dreamily upon his fair adversary. 

Lady Montagu. My Lord Chesterfield, you 
know, while the most ingenious of flatterers, takes 
a malicious pleasure in provoking combats of wit 
among his friends. 

Lady Townley. In which he is skilful enough to 
direct the combatants, while avoiding the shafts 
himself. 

Selwyn. Lady Montagu also knows how to pro- 
voke, only in a different way. The late Mr. Pope 
was her most notable victim. The Marquis of Lin- 
bury has often related that famous love-declara- 
tion of the great poet to Lady Mary, which she 
extinguished in a burst of laughter. 

Lady Montagu. Poor Mr. Pope! But even 
great poets, who always live in the clouds, some- 
times become earthly. 

Chesterfield. The Marquis, I hear, has married 
off the last of his five daughters. 

Lady Townley. Those fat dowdies! What a 
load off his mind ; — but he must have paid for it 
dearly. And how fares his younger brother. Lord 
Claybourne, with his new consort ? 

Selwyn. He deeply regrets his first wife. 

Chesterfield. So does the second one. Rumour 
has it that they are hardly on speaking terms with 
each other, and that a fashionable divorce is im- 
pending. 

Lady Montagu. What! another? It seems to 



ACT I 7 

rain divorce suits this year. It would almost be a 
good plan for Parliament to pass a general law di- 
vorcing all the people of England, and be done 
with it. 

Lady Townley. What a dreadful scheme ! 

Selicyn. And what would be the advantages of 
such a law? 

Lady Montagu. Oh ! very many. It would save 
a vast expense; those that pleased could marry 
again ; those that are now unhappy would be re- 
leased from their misery; while many reputations 
now in great peril, would be saved. 

Lady Towidey. I fear that England is not yet 
far enough advanced for such a law. But we are 
neglecting our friends. Lord Carlington, you do 
not join us in our nonsense. You seem as grave 
as a statesman out of place or a parson disappointed 
of a bishopric. 

Carlingion. In these troublous times, we cannot 
always be merry, even in the presence of wit and 
beauty. 

Lady Montagu. Surely public affairs, which are 
mostly a huge joke, can worry no one. 

Chesterfield. I trust your Lordship is not dis- 
tressed at the disturbances in the Northern part of 
the kingdom. Even our North-British friend Sir 
Percy Campbell seems to be a little moved by the 
absurd rising of the Pretender's misguided adher- 
ents. 

Sir Percy. We must bear with patience what 



8 HORACE WALPOLE 

changes take place. Is there any further news of 
the rising ? 

Chesterfield. Only that the Pretender, with a 
ragged horde of half-naked Highlanders and moss- 
troopers and a few misguided fanatics of the hotter 
class, after effecting a landing several weeks ago, 
marched to Edinburgh where lie held a mimic 
court, dispensed visionary honours to his poverty- 
stricken and half-witted supporters, and is now 
marching into England. [^Horace and Virginia 
step forward from an open door where they have 
been listening.!^ 

Virginia [To IIorace'\. Misguided fanatics he 
calls them ! How ungenerous to speak thus of men 
who believe they have drawn their sword in defence 
of their rightful king. 

Horace. They may think so, but enthusiasm 
for a hopeless and bad cause is no measure of its 
reasonableness. 

Virginia. Time will show whether the cause is 
as hopeless or bad as you think, Horace. Await 
the event, before you condemn. 

Horace. You surely can have no sympathy with 
treason, Virginia. 

Virginia. It will not be treason if Prince 
Charles succeeds ; it will be a restoration. 

Horace [With comic gravity]. Is it possible 
that my charmer is a Jacobite — that I, a member 
of Parliament, and the son of England's prime 
minister, am enthralled in love's charm by a fair 
rebel ? What am I to think of such sentiments ? 



ACT I 9 

Virginia. Think only that I love you. Is not 
that enough ? 

Horace [Rapturously]. No, your love is not 
enough. I must have you, Virginia; you, to be 
mine forever. 

Virginia. Horace ! 

Horace. Virginia, why do you always refuse? 
Come, fly with me ; I have wealth, position, every- 
thing that can make our lives happv. 

Virginia. Your father and my father 

Horace. I know they are deadly enemies. And 
should we remain unhappy to gratify the prejudices 
of two obstinate old men, who have neither under- 
standing nor sympathy with the feelings of two 
young hearts ? The one, a hard-headed, old states- 
man ; the other, a gloomy disappointed partisan of 
a lost cause. Virginia, you do not love me. 

Virginia. Horace^ hear me. I am true to you, 
my heart is yours, but my hand I cannot yet give. 

Horace. And why ? 

Virginia. I cannot now tell. Horace, wait; if 
you love me, you may soon be able to show me how 
much. 

Horace. What is the meaning of this mysteri- 
ous delay, what secret obstacle [Enter Sir 

Robert Walpole, all rise.] 

Sir Robert. A merry meeting. Greetings to you 
all. Lady Townley, I kiss your hand ; glad to see 
you, my lord. [To Chesterfield.'] Gentlemen, 
your servant — [Bowing stiffly to Lord Carlington 
and his friends.] Lady Montagu is, of course. 



10 HORACE WALPOLE 

always to be found in every haunt of wit, where 
my bookish son Horace seeks his inspiration. 

Lady Townley. Your sarcastic compliments, Sir 
Robert, are misplaced here. We may not be very 
bright, but our poor wits will not compare unfa- 
vourably with that of the House which you rule. 

Sir Robert. Oh, the House of Commons, — a 
necessary utility for which I entertain the highest 
regard. 

Lady Montagu. Such as we all have for ser- 
vants who serve their masters when they do not rob 
or betray them. 

Sir Robert. You are severe, Lady Mary. Our 
friend and Mr. Selwyn here 

Lady Townley. Who never attends except when 
he has no handier place to sleep in 

Sir Robert. T was saying, our friend Mr. Sel- 
wyn here, who is a most useful though a somewhat 
irregular attendant, will stand by me when I say, 
that with all the criticism which faction and dis- 
loyalty have heaped upon it, the House of Com- 
mons is the bulwark of our liberties, and the de- 
fender of the Hanoverian succession. 

Virginia. Until some other succession takes its 
place 

Sir Robert. Perhaps, Madam, your youthful 
sympathy may influence your opinion, 

Selwyn. Or the hair-brained expedition of 
James the Second's grandson and his horde of 
North-British savages and English adventur- 
ers 



ACT I 11 

8ir Percy. Whatever causes my countrymen 
may espouse, they hardly deserve such epithets, 
Mr. Selwyn. They at least know how to fight and 
die for what they deem right. 

Carlington. Nor are they merely the bribed 
supporters of ,a government for which they care 
nothing. 

Sir Robert. These are big words, my lord ; such 
charges are not so lightly flung at the representa- 
tives of the people. 

Carlington. Representatives of the people! 
They represent only their own pockets, — and would 
betray their present master for another, if paid to 
do so. 

Sir Robert. Your sentiments, my lord, are well 
known to me. The present establishment is upheld 
by our representatives, and in the House of Com- 
mons, at least, disloyalty dares not raise its head. 
While a few silly fanatics may be ready to betray 
the country, for their own ends, to a foreign pre- 
tender, with the French King's instructions in his 
pocket, and a rabble of bandits at his back, our 
Commons' House of Parliament is true to the pub- 
lic welfare, and the country is satisfied, and well- 
affected to the government, and happy. 

Carlington. Well-affected, did you say? You 
are prime minister. Sir Eobert, look about you and 
see how well-affected the people are to the govern- 
ment. Discontent everywhere; England ignored 
in the councils of Europe ; the burden of taxation 
impoverishing even the prosperous, and driving the 



12 HORACE WALPOLE 

people to desperation, while a crowd of pensioners 
and place-holders grow rich on the public treasury. 
Do you call that a healthy condition of the country, 
that less than a generation ago was the envy and 
terror of Europe ? 

Sir Robert. My lord, you utter but the senti- 
ments we always hear from those out of office and 
from Jacobites. The former we must endure; 
of the latter we shall soon be relieved by the 
hangman. 

Lady Montagu. That will interest our friend 
Mr. Selwyn, — executions are the only sights which 
get him out of bed before the afternoon. 

Lady Townley. I hope, Sir Robert, that when 
it comes to any such extreme measures, you will 
at least spare our old friend Mr. Shippen. 

Sir Robert. You mean old Will Shippen, the 
humorous Jacobite who represents the University 
of Oxford. His sentiments are known to every- 
body, but the old fox is too careful to put his neck 
into a halter. 

Selwyn. He paid you a high compliment the 
other day. 

Sir Robert. And what was it ? 

Selwyn. It was after the house rose. He said, 
pointing to the retiring members : "After all, Sir 
Robert and I are the only two honest men in Par- 
liament ; he is for King George and I am for King 
James ; but the other fellows only want places and 
pensions under King George or King James." 
[Laughter.] 



ACT I 13 

Carlington. Will Shippen evidently under- 
stands the principles of Sir Robert's supporters. 

Sir Robert. Or rather those who wish the hope- 
less cause success, my lord. 

Sir Percy. Is its failure so certain ? 

Selwyn. It was rumoured this morning that the 
Pretender's army was already in England, after 
eluding the force sent out against it. 

Lady Townley. How dreadful ! We shall all 
be massacred by those half-naked Highlanders. 

Sir Robert [Laughing]. Have no fear. When 
once they meet the King's troops they will be scat- 
tered like chaff before the wind — and then the 
needy followers of the Prince will doubtless give 
him up for the price of £30,000, which has been set 
on his head. 

Virginia. An equal price has been set by the 
Prince on the head of the Elector of Hanover. 

Sir Percy. Whatever be the result of this ris- 
ing, the young Prince will never be betrayed by 
those who fight for him. 

Sir Robert. Such has not been their conduct in 
the past. You forget, Sir Percy, what happened to 
Charles the First, 

Lady Townley. A truce to this dreadful poli- 
tics; — is not even a quiet home like ours sacred to 
you wicked politicians ? 

Sir Robert. One of the great charms of Lady 
Townley's drawing-room is, that one meets here not 
only wit and beauty, but all parties, Whigs and 
Tories, Hanoverians and Jacobites — it is a real 



14 HORACE WALPOLE 

pleasure to meet so varied an array of talent and 
opinion. 

Lady Townley. But that is no reason why you 
should make our peaceful house a battle-gi-ound. 
Oh, you dreadful men ! You are all corrupted and 
estranged from us by politics. 

Lady Montagu. And now that Mr. Horace is 
also a member of Parliament, we may soon see him 
as rarely among us as his wicked old father. 

Lady Townley. N^ever fear. There is a magnet 
with which we can always attract him. [LooJcing 
significantly at Virginia.] 

Chesterfield. I understand Mr. Horace made a 
great address to the electors of Kellington. 

Selivyn. How the yokels did stare at that fa- 
mous speech ! How they applauded ! 

Chesterfield. Did they understand it? 

Selivyn. Impossible. Conway and Williams 
and I had a hand in preparing it, — and I'm sure 
none of us could — Horace himself certainly did not 
understand it. 

Lady Townley. Mr. Horace, do not let them 
make fun of you. Your speeches must have been 
at least better than most of those I have heard in 
the House of Commons. 

Chesterfield. Mr. Horace is very properly try- 
ing to follow the example of his distinguished 
father, and will doubtless be an ornament to the 
House as he now is of the drawing-room. 

Selwyn. I am told that a Walpole has generally 
sat in every parliament for the last three hundred 



ACT I 15 

years. Horace has a long line of ancestors to emu- 
late. 

Horace. Our ancestors ! Why, if the ancestors 
of most of us were alive to-day, they would prob- 
ably be hanged. [Laughter.] 

Lady Townley. Well, let us hope that between 
his parliamentary duties and his other — attentions 
[Looking at Virginia] Mr. Horace will not degen- 
erate into a [Enter Captain Conway in 

haste.] 

Conway. Remarkable news has just been re- 
ported. It can hardly be believed. 

Sir Robert. Well, Captain Conway, what has 
happened ? I suppose that the Pretender's army of 
ragamuffins has dispersed even before an engage- 
ment, and are now flying back to their native dens. 

Conway. The reverse, Sir Robert. Listen ! The 
Pretender's forces, as you know, left Edinburgh 
amid the utmost enthusiasm among the people; 
marching southward, he completely eluded the roy- 
al forces, and increasing the numbers of his own 
adherents by some thousands, he was finally met by 
the royal troops at Preston Pans, where a terrible 
battle took place. It is said that the onslaught of 
the Highlanders and the Northern rebels was ter- 
rific and General Cope's army was cut to pieces. 
The rebel army marched into England, besieged 
and took Carlisle in a couple of days and captured 
Manchester, where James III was proclaimed and 
several regiments recruited. After occupying Der- 
by, where thousands flocked to his banner, the Pre- 



16 HOKACE WALPOLE 

tender is now at the point of marching to London. 
This is the last report brought in by the couriers. 
The whole city is in a panic. The banks are al- 
ready besieged, merchants are shutting up their 
shops, and Jacobites are everywhere boasting of a 
change of dynasty, and uttering threats of venge- 
ance against those whom they call the abettors 
of the Hanoverian usurpation. The whole town is 
in an uproar. [Consternatioii of all except Sir 
Robert; the Jacobite gentlemen looh triumphantly 
at each other.] 

Lady Townley. We shall all be murdered and 
robbed. 

Sir Robert. This temporary success will only 
prove to be the prelude to a greater disaster to these 
adventurers; and those who are now quaking in 
their shoes, will be ashamed of their silly fears; 
while the reckless traitors who are now boasting 
of their future triumph, will soon seek safety in 
flight to avoid the service of a public executioner. 

Conway \_Humorously to Horace]. I suppose, 
Horace, we shall soon find ourselves fugitives and 
exiles. What shall we do? I shall have to enlist 
as a private with the King of Prussia, and you 

Horace {^Humorously]. Oh, I shall engage as a 
private teacher of Latin to some Hanoverian coun- 
try squire's children, unless the fair Virginia here, 
whose family will probably have interest with the 
new government, has enough of my estates spared 
to enable me to live on one of my tenant's farms. 

Virginia. This is hardly a time for such jest- 
ing, Horace. Even Captain Conway, who is a sol- 



ACT I 17 

dier, should know that a successful enemy is not 
utterly despicable. 

Carlington \_To Sir Robert]. You appear to be 
lavish to-day, Sir Robert, with hangings and exe- 
cutions. 

Sir Percy. Especially as Sir Robert is getting 
ready to hang a victorious army. Rather a big job 
to undertake at this moment. His Highness — I 
mean Prince Charles — may not thank you very cor- 
dially for these amiable intentions. 

Sir Robert. You appear to be in a merry mood, 
Sir Percy, at this cheerful news from those whom 
I take to be your friends. Take care that your ap- 
parent feelings are not translated into acts. Re- 
member the fate of your kinsman Derwentwater 
who died the death of a traitor after his marauders 
were disposed of by his late Majesty's loyal troops. 

Carlington. Had he been successful you would 
not have called him a traitor. And those who gloat- 
ed over the fate of that unfortunate young noble- 
man and his brave followers, would have been the 
first to solicit his favour and buy their own safety 
by betraying each other and their master. 

Sir Robert. I can well understand, my lord, that 
you still have a tender memory for the chiefs of the 
rebellion of 1715. If I remember rightly, you 
yourself were not wholly unconnected with the 
movement in the N^orth at that time. Your fa- 
ther's presence in London when the rising col- 
lapsed, and his fulsome protestations of loyalty to 
the Hanoverian succession inclined the government 
to disregard what it mercifully chose to consider an 



18 HORACE WALPOLE 

ignorant zeal for a bad cause. Under similar cir- 
cumstances to-day, age and experience would not 
gloss over acts of treason. 

Carlington. You forget, sir, you are talking to 
a peer ; your present position, which may not last 
much longer, gives you no right to insult your op- 
ponents. Your purchased majority in the House 
of Commons may protect you for a short while 
against an inquiry into your administration of the 
kingdom's affairs — perhaps that same body may 
soon find it more to their convenience to change 
their attitude and you may then live to fear those 
whom, in the arrogance of your crumbling power, 
you affect to despise and insult. 

Sir Robert. Beware, my lord, how you dally 
with treason. More ancient houses than yours 
have been brought to ruin by that crime. Thirty 
years ago your youth saved you. The government 
will not always be so merciful to the abettors of re- 
bellion. [Bows to Lord Carlington, who turns his 
back on him, to talk to his friends. Sir Robert 
turns to Lady Townley.] And now. Lady Town- 
ley, I must leave this interesting company. [To 
Chesterfield.] My lord, both houses will be assem- 
bled early to-morrow. Captain Conway, we shall 
need your presence elsewhere. Your loyalty is at 
least beyond doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, your 
servant. [Exit Sir Robert and Conway.] 

Lady Townley. I declare I am frightened out 
of my wits about these horrid rebels. 

Chesterfield. Did you hear, Mr. Selwyn ? You 



ACT I 19 

must attend Parliament to-morrow early, in the 
morning ! 

Horace. Under penalty of being suspected of 
disaffection to the government. [Laughing.] 

Lady Montagu. If Mr. Selwyn can be got out 
of bed for a morning session of the House, no one 
will doubt of his loyalty. 

Lady Toivnley. Do not heed these base slander- 
ers, Mr. Selwyn. 

Selwyn. With you as an ally, Lady Townley, I 
do not fear even the wit of my Lady Montagu. 

Lady Townley. And now, let us go down to sup- 
per. [Offers Mr. Selwyn her arm. During this 
talk the three Jacobite lords have been talking ear- 
nestly together.] When our bookish friend Mr. 
Walpole and the fair Virginia have finished their 
tete-a-tete, they will probably follow. 

Sir Percy [To Lord Carlington]. I assure you, 
my lord, all the necessary steps have been taken. 

Haxton. We can even count on many secret 
friends in both houses. 

Carlington. Enough. Remember, to-morrow. 
[The guests slowly leave the room. Horace and 
Virginia linger behind.] 

Virginia. Horace, do you love me ? 

Horace. Can you ask, Virginia ? For two years 
I have been at your feet, worshipping the ground 
you trod on. Why do you ask ? 

Virginia. Horace, great events are impending. 
I must speak. You say you love me. You now 
have an opportunity of not only showing your af- 
fection, but of binding mine to yours forever. How 



20 HORACE WALPOLE 

much my heart is yours — yes, my soul, you know. 
Oh, Horace, will you, will you prove it to me now ? 

Horace. Ask anything of me, Virginia, dearest 
Virginia, — can there be anything that I would re- 
fuse to her who is dearer to me than my own life ? 
{Taking her hand and kissing it.] 

Virginia. Listen, Horace ; you have now heard 
of the favourable, nay, almost decisive turn that the 
affairs of him, whom we regard as our lawful King, 
have taken ; and how his son Prince Charles, at the 
head of a large and enthusiastic army, is even now 
marching to London to claim his father's heritage. 

Horace. I infer from what I have heard that the 
Pretender has had some success, and is said to be 
on his way to London ; but nothing that need give 
the government any serious fears. 

Virginia. But you do not know all. Hear me, 
Horace, for I am in possession of facts which 
should convince you that the days of this foreign 
dominion are nearly over. The King of France, 
who is thoroughly in sympathy with the cause of 
King James the Third, has secretly permitted an 
expedition to be formed, made up largely of our 
own exiles, which is expected to land and to co-op- 
erate with the Prince's forces. But this is not all. 
Within a short time, our friends in many parts of 
the kingdom will have risen. In London itself, 
our partisans are so strong that even a part of the 
troops stationed here are ready to renounce the 
Elector of Hanover when the word is given, and 
long before the Prince arrives in London, King 



ACT I 21 

James the Third will be proclaimed at Westmin- 
ster. 

Horace. Virginia, these are but idle fancies. 
The whole movement will collapse quicker than it 
was formed. 

Virginia. Horace, you are unreasonably biased 
by your father's views, whose long years of tranquil 
power prevent him from seeing the downfall of 
this long Hanoverian misgovernment. The people 
who are longing for the expulsion of this foreign 
usurper and the restoration of their rightful mon- 
arch, are ready everywhere to welcome the change. 
I know your own sense of what is honourable must 
convince you of the justice of his cause, which is 
that of the people. Now, Horace, realise the march 
of events. My father, who is all-powerful with 
our exiled monarch and his son, as also with the 
French court, will doubtless soon occupy, under 
the new government, a high position close to the 
restored monarch. 

Horace. I am sorry to see how deeply your 
father seems implicated in these desperate schemes. 
I can only hope, for your sake as well as his, that 
his own share in these transactions, if he is in- 
volved in them, will not lead him into the disaster 
which he is apparently inviting. 

Virginia. You know the enmity subsisting be- 
tween him and your father. 

Horace. They naturally hate each other. My 
father is the minister of King George the Second, 
while yours is more than suspected of being an ad- 
herent of the Stuart family. 



22 HOEACE WALPOLE 

Virginia. Their differences, Horace, are a hope- 
less obstacle to our union. It is in your power now 
to remove this obstacle. With the fall of the Hano- 
verian usurper, a question of but a few days, and 
the restoration of the rightful monarch, you surely 
cannot fail to see where your interest lies. 

Horace. Hear me, Virginia, you and your un- 
fortunate friends are under many strange delu- 
sions. You are not aware of the enormous military 
and naval forces at the disposal of the government, 
ready to crush this rising in a few weeks at most; 
you are also strangely deluded in believing that the 
mass of the people have the slightest sympathy with 
the Stuarts, whose principles and opinions linger 
only in the minds of a few disaffected persons. 
Even of those, only a few are foolhardy enough to 
risk their lives in this expedition, which is more 
like a raid of wild Highlanders and bandits than a 
really formidable invasion. Let me beseech of you 
to induce your father to give no countenance to 
these plottings which can only lead him to destruc- 
tion. 

Virginia. Horace, you are blinded by over-con- 
fidence, and do not know the real state of the coun- 
try. We are in possession of information which 
makes the speedy success of our friends a certainty. 
Horace, for my sake, be wise; write to Prince 
Charles making your submission, and use your in- 
fluence for the cause. Your attitude will not only 
protect your father from the consequences of his 
long service to the Hanoverian usurpers, but will 
remove all obstacles to our union. 



ACT I 23 

Horace. I am a loyal subject of King George 
II, and shall always remain one ; even if the insane 
plans of your Jacobite friends were sure of success, 
I should never for a moment swerve from my al- 
legiance. 

Virginia. Horace [Taking both his hands], 
will you not for my sake, for the love I have for 
you, join this righteous cause, which is at the point 
of triumph ? Do you not love me ? 

Horace ^Passionately]. Do I love you, Vir- 
ginia ? You can never know how much my happi- 
ness, my whole life, is in your hands. If the cause 
you so warmly advocate were just, even without 
your solicitation, my sword and my life would be at 
Prince Charles's disposal ; but like all right-minded 
Englishmen, I consider that the Stuart family 
have long since forfeited all right to rule in this 
country ; and I shall live and die a loyal adherent 
of the present establishment. 

Virginia. Think of your danger when our cause 
wins, and we shall win. 

Horace. This is folly, madness, dearest Vir- 
ginia. Let me implore you, by all the love I bear 
you, for your sake, for your father's, to abandon 
the desperate schemes of these conspirators. 

Virginia [Proudly]. We are incapable of be- 
traying our friends or abandoning a just cause. 
And do you then refuse to join us ? 

Horace. I do. 

Virginia [Coldly]. Very well, then; do as you 
please, Mr. Walpole You apparently care very 
little for me. You have made your choice and I 



24 HORACE WALPOLE 

have made mine. You have thrown away your 
happiness in a way that shows how little you value 
it. Our intimacy is ended forever. 

Horace. This surely cannot be your last resolve ? 

Virginia. It is, and irrevocably. 

Horace [Earnestly']. Hear me, Virginia; is it 
to be my fate to see you and your father throwing 
yourself heedlessly into destruction, with me un- 
able to prevent it and save you ? 

Virginia [Firmly']. Enough of this, Mr. Wal- 
pole. We have chosen our paths, and they lie 
apart. You will now oblige me by considering that 
this discussion as well as our former relations are 
now over. Such is my wish, Mr. Walpole, and 
as a gentleman, I shall expect you to observe it. 

Horace [Sadly]. You give me no choice. Lady 
Virginia, you inflict on me a wound deeper than 
you realise ; I am still your friend. It is your wish 
that we part, and I leave you, now. But, Lady 
Virginia, if at any time you should find yourself 
in any danger, I trust you will consider me at your 
service to render assistance. 

Virginia [Boiving coldly]. Thank you, Mr. 
Walpole, I shall not want your help. We shall 
soon be in a position to grant rather than beg fa- 
vours. Good evening, Mr. Walpole. [Horace hows 
and exit. Virginia sinks on a sofa, and covers her 
face with her hands.] 

[Curtain.] 



ACT II 

Scene. — Room in Lord Carlingtons mansion. 

[Discovered: Carlington, Haxton, Sir Percy Camp- 
bell, four or five other Jacobite conspirators 
(supers) seated at a table which is placed a 
little in the background.] 

Carlington. Gentlemen, the time has come for 
striking a decisive blow. I have here a letter from 
Prince Charles announcing his intention of march- 
ing immediately to London. 

Haxton. Where are the troops of the Duke of 
Cumberland which have been sent out against him ? 

Carlington. They have again been outwitted by 
the Prince, and are many miles behind him. 

Sir Percy. It is then clear that the Prince's 
army will be in London several days before they 
can be overtaken. 

Carlington. No doubt of it. There is nothing 
now in the way. 

Haxton. What is the actual strength of Prince 
Charles's army? 

Carlington. He has with him nearly 8,000 
Highlanders, about 4,000 well-equipped men raised 
by the Northern gentry, besides several regiments 
recruited in Manchester, also several thousand who 
have flocked to his banner from the Southern coun- 

25 



26 HOEACE WALPOLE 

ties. In all, he commands an army of nearly 13,000 
foot and 2,000 horse. This force is sure to be in- 
creased by thousands on his way to London. There 
are no troops between Derby and the capital to pre- 
vent an occupation of London. The few regiments 
at the disposal of the Elector of Hanover are too 
insignificant to make any effective resistance. And 
now, gentlemen, for the disposition of this night's 
plans. Before to-morrow morning every strong 
place must be in our hands, and our forces placed. 
[To Haxton.] My lord, are your friends pre- 
pared ? 

Haxton. Five hundred men, well armed, and 
drilled, are about Hounslow Heath, ready to march 
to the city under the command of Captain Jermyn 
at about three o'clock. They will be re-inforced by 
many of Braybury's tenants, and by a number of 
men brought up by the Jacobite gentry of Kent. 

Carlington. Good ! With about fifteen hundred 
men under arms for King James at that point, we 
are masters of the City. What about the Elector 
of Hanover's forces at Finchley Common ? 

Sir Percy. Only a couple of regiments; many of 
the men, including several of the principal officers, 
are with us and are ready to renounce their alle- 
giance to the usurper, and join us as soon as King 
James is proclaimed. 

Haxton. Have all our friends in both houses of 
Parliament been notified of the hour of the rising ? 

Carlington. I have a list of nearly two hundred 
who will be in readiness at the hour appointed, with 



ACT II 27 

their retainers and friends. Of these a consider- 
able number are at Lord Northam's, while others 
have rendez-voused at Sir Henry Richmond's man- 
sion in Chelsea; a third body under Colonel Ren- 
ton is in a large private house near the Tower. All 
these divisions only await the signal. 

Sir Percy. Have the arrangements been com- 
pleted for the capture of the Tower ? 

Carlington. It is as good as ours already. The 
guards have been doubled; but our friends inside 
are ready to open the gates for us ; the Governor is 
my friend and ready to yield at the slightest show 
of force, while Colonel Renton with his division 
will promptly occupy it in the name of King James. 

Sir Percy. What measures have been provided 
for the seizure of the Palace ? 

Carlington. That has been left as an early 
morning surprise to the force under Colonel Ren- 
ton. The Elector of Hanover will be seized and 
with his German hangers-on will be promptly 
lodged in the Tower until Prince Charles packs 
him off to his German electorate. 

Haxton. On how large a force, my lord, do you 
count on having at your disposal by to-morrow 
morning ? 

Carlington. According to the final reports from 
the chiefs of our adherents, nearly 5,000 men will 
take part in this night's movement ; and by to-mor- 
row morning, when every strong place including 
the Tower is in our possession, thousands of those 
who have not yet openly announced their adhesion 



28 HORACE WALPOLE 

will immediately join us. Long before Prince 
Charles arrives, King James will be proclaimed at 
Westminster, the Tower, and Charing Cross. 

Haxton. What preparations have the govern- 
ment made for a surprise like the one to be sprung 
this night ? 

Carlington. Practically none of any conse- 
quence. The few regiments at Einchley Common, 
the small garrison at the Tower, and the guard at 
the Palace. The Southern and Western regiments 
have been sent for, but cannot arrive for nearly two 
days ; while the Hanoverian troops, the only ones 
on which the usurper can safely rely, are not ex- 
pected to land for at least three days. With Lon- 
don in our hands to-morrow morning, and all our 
secret friends in the government and in Parliament 
declaring for King James, we shall be in actual 
occupation as the provisional government until the 
arrival of Prince Charles. 

Sir Percy. How about the Southern and West- 
em regiments and Duke of Cumberland's army ? 

Carlington. When once Prince Charles is es- 
tablished as the head of the government in posses- 
sion, the few regiments coming from the South and 
the West will be hopelessly outnumbered and will 
doubtless declare for their rightful king. As for 
the Duke of Cumberland's army, which is made 
up half of Dutch mercenaries, we can hardly ex- 
pect that the English troops among them will join 
Dutchmen in attempting the hopeless task of cap- 
turing the city. We have nothing to fear from 



ACT II 29 

-^em. The Duke of Cumberland and the other 
members of the Elector's family will be only too 
glad to make terms for their speedy departure from 
this kingdom. 

Haxton. I hope that the tools of this long Hano- 
verian usurpation, like that old rascal Walpole, will 
not have time to get away. 

Sir Percy. It would be a rare sight to see that 
old fox paying with his head on Tower Hill for all 
his villainies. 

Carlington. Our king and his son Prince 
Charles are disposed to be merciful to those who, 
under force, have concurred in this long misgov- 
ernment. But such persons as have been guilty of 
intentional wickedness and oppression, will be left 
to a loyal and unbribed Parliament to dispose of as 
it sees fit. [Enter Virginia, who whispers to Lord 
Carlington. ] Everything is in perfect preparation. 
Gentlemen, you will now accompany me to my 
study to meet our friends and agents to make our 
final dispositions for the rising. In two hours 
from now, the orders to march must be in the 
hands of our leaders, and before daybreak their 
forces must be in possession of the city. [All rise 
to leave except Virginia.] 

Virginia. Oh, how I wish I were a man to 
march with you and strike a blow for so glorious 
a cause. 

Haxton. The days of Amazons, madam, are 
unfortunately over. Otherwise we should gladly 
take service under such a dashing general. 



30 HOEACE WALPOLE 

Sir Percy. If Lady Virginia is so dangerous in 
times of peace, what a terrible conqueror she would 
be with an army at her back. [Exit all except Vir- 
ginia. ] 

Virginia. To-morrow, then, and then the King 
will have his own again. But — Horace — ^the son 
of that hard minister of the Hanoverian — no — he 
did not care for me or else he would have joined 
us in the good cause — perhaps when the Stuarts 
are again on the throne, he may then — but no, we 
are now sundered forever. [Pauses. Enter Hor- 
ace furtively, muffled in a long cloaTc.^ 

Horace. Virginia, Lady Carlington 

Virginia [Startled]. Mr. Walpole, what is the 
meaning of this visit, and at this hour — secretly? 

Horace. Lady Virginia, I have come here at the 
risk of my reputation, my whole future career, per- 
haps my life — ^but I must speak to you. 

Virginia. There can be no occasion for this visit 
that I can imagine ; you have no right to enter our 
house, and stealthily, at this hour, unless you have 
changed your mind, and are now willing 

Horace. There is no time for discussion — or ex- 
planation — I have come to warn you for the last 
time — you little know your danger — you are on 
the brink of a precipice. 

Virginia. Enough of this tragic vein, Mr. Wal- 
pole. I thought we had settled that and all other 
relations between us. 

Horace. Lady Virginia, I come here to you as 
your best friend — as one who would save you and 



ACT II 31 

your father from a fatal step, while there is but a 
short time 

Virginia. I thank you for your solicitude for 
me and my father. Perhaps your own father will 
be in need of your assistance, and much sooner. 

Horace. You are persistent in your blind delu- 
sions until it will be too late. Hear me if only for 
a few moments. 

Virginia. A few moments, Mr. Walpole, and 
then I hope you will terminate this visit which can 
only be painful to both of us. 

Horace. I cannot divulge to you facts or state 
secrets which have been communicated to me under 
the most solemn pledge of silence. 

Virginia. I have not asked you either to come 
here or to divulge anything 

Horace. I have come to solemnly warn you — to 
tell you that you are in the greatest danger. I be- 
seech you, Virginia, by all the love you once had 
for me, by my own affection for you, to heed what 
I say. It may soon be too late. You and your 
father must leave London at once, this minute 

Virginia. Mr. Walpole, you are presuming on 
our former relations to give advice when it is un- 
asked ; and for some imaginary reasons, to try to 
terrify with vague warnings those who fear neither 
your mysterious hints nor your implied threats 

Horace. Lady Virginia, nothing is further from 
my mind than to threaten. Are you so blinded by 
your thoughtless zeal for the cause in which you 
have embarked not to see how hopeless 



32 HORACE WALPOLE 

Virginia. Enough of this, Mr. Walpole; you 
must really spare me any further talk of this 
kind. 

Horace. Hear me for the last time, Virginia — 
do not let me see you fall a victim. I would save 
you — will you not heed my warning? I dare not 
say more — I beseech you — leave London with your 
father at once — while there is yet time. 

Virginia. And desert our friends ? Never ! 
Mr. Walpole, you are deceived in everything. And 
now leave me, sir, or I shall think your motive in 
coming here is not that of a supposed friend but 

that of a [Enter all the preceding characters 

with looks and gestures of surprise. Momentary 
silence. ] 

Haxton. So, Mr. Walpole, your masters have 
found fitting employment for you at last. As a 
sinecurist pensioner, you were at least ornamental. 
As a spy, you hope to be useful. 

Carlington. Your presence here at this hour, 
Mr, Walpole, requires explanation. It is not cus- 
tomary for gentlemen to enter secretly into a house 
with honourable motives, especially as your known 
attitude towards me and my friends is one of open 
enmity. 

Horace. Lord Haxton's insolent imputation I 
fling back in his teeth; there will probably be no 
occasion for me to call him to account for his in- 
sult. To you, my lord, I shall merely state that 
I came here to make a communication to Lady 
Carlington. My errand being terminated, I beg 



ACT II 33 

leave to withdraw. [The Jacobites bar Horace's 
exit. ] 

Carlington. Pardon me, Mr. Walpole — that 
may not he. You came here unasked. Your mo- 
tive is, at least, suspicious. I once more ask you 
honestly to tell the object of this midnight intru- 
sion. 

Virginia. Father, Mr. Walpole merely came to 
offer some needless advice. He may now retire. 

Sir Percy. He has come as a spy. 

Horace. That is a lie. 

Carlington. Gentlemen, this is my affair, kind- 
ly leave it to me. Virginia, whatever the pre- 
tended motive of his visit may be, I refuse to ac- 
cept so flimsy an excuse. Mr. Walpole, once more I 
demand from you the real cause of this visit. 

Horace. Lady Virginia has told you. I de- 
cline to add more to her explanation. And I now 
insist upon being permitted to retire. 

Carlington. We cannot permit you to depart at 
present I regret to say, Mr. Walpole, that you 
will have to consider yourself for to-night a guest 
in my house. You will be treated as is befitting 
a gentleman of your station. The period of your 
detention will be only till to-morrow morning, when 
you will be restored to liberty. 

Horace. My lord, I refuse your amiable hos- 
pitality and demand to be permitted to retire. You 
have no right to detain me, I am not a robber who 
has entered your house. 



34: HORACE WALPOLE 

Haxton. Mr. Walpole is too prosperous to un- 
dertake so hazardous an occupation. 

Horace. I cannot notice the insolent sneers of 
a disaffected politician. My lord, I once more in- 
sist upon retiring, and warn you that the indignity 
put upon me may be a very costly one to all con- 
cerned. I came here on an errand of friendship to 
Lady Virginia, and desire to go now. [Attempts 
to leave, is prevented, and draws his sword.] 

Virginia [Aside], Mr. Walpole, Horace, stay. 
There may be reasons. 

Horace [To Virginia.] I know there are rea- 
sons. Gentlemen, let me pass. [All but Carling- 
ton draw> their swords.] 

Carlington. Time is pressing. You cannot 
leave this house to-night. Put up your sword, Mr. 
Walpole. You will be well treated, but stay here 
in this house you must, for this night. 

Horace. I will pass, and again I warn you, my 
lord, that you are playing a very dangerous game. 
[Attempts to force his way, swords are crossed.] 

Virginia [Placing herself between]. Gentlemen, 
you will not, for my sake 

Carlington [Pulling Virginia away]. Daughter, 
you do not understand. Very well, Mr. Walpole, 
since you oblige me to use force. Gentlemen, dis- 
arm him. [In the sword-play, Horace is seized 
from behind, disarmed and forcibly lield.] 

Horace. Gentlemen, you will bitterly regret this 
act. I am in your hands for the moment and must 



ACT II 35 

submit. [Enter suddenly and in haste, Firebrace 
Pendrel. ] 

Carlington. Mr. Pendrel ! 

Pendrel. My Lord Carlington, gentlemen, I 
have barely had time to come from the North 

Carlington. What news. — All is well, I pre- 
sume. 

Pendrel [Speaking aside with Carlington, Hax- 
ton, and Siyr Percy]. Gentlemen, our cause is 
hopeless, the Prince's army is in full retreat from 
Derby, the expedition is abandoned, our followers 
are dispersing, the retreat seems to have become a 
disorderly flight. As for me, I shall at once seek 
a somewhat healthier climate. 

Carlington. Do you mean that the despatches 
we have received of the progress of the army, the 
arrangements concerted with our friends here, the 
preparations for our final stroke of this night 

Pendrel. I can explain no further. It is no 
longer time for explanations, not to speak of a 
rising, but for safety. Grentlemen, I bid you good 
evening — I trust to meet you soon in Paris. 
[Exit. They all look surprised at each other.] 

Carlington. Gentlemen, we have gone too far 
to retreat. Our plans of to-night must be carried 
out. When once we have occupied the City, and 
have proclaimed King James, I shall despatch 
messengers to Prince Charles and the leaders of 
the army. Once our followers in possession of 
London, and our cause is triumphant, even in spite 
of this temporary check. And now [To the con- 



36 HOEACE WALPOLE 

spirators guarding Horace]^ conduct this gentle- 
man to my guest-chamber, and see that he is prop- 
erly watched, but do not let him come to any harm. 
The hour is now pressing. Gentlemen, are you 
now ready to carry out our plans ? 

All. Yes — at once. 

Horace [Tearing himself away from his captors 
and seizing his sword]. Traitors, you are rush- 
ing your doom. Lady Virginia, once more I ask 

you to remember what I said to you [Move- 

ment towards Horace by the conspirators, Vir- 
ginia rushes between. At this moment enter Cap- 
tain Conway and Soldiers.] 



[Curtain.] 



ACT III 

Scene. — Room in Sir Robert Walpole's house. 

TiM-R.^-About four weeks later. \^Sir Robert cmd 
Selwyn at the table with papers.^ 

Selwyn. As usual, Sir Robert, you have shown 
yourself a statesman, more than a match for all 
your enemies, open and secret. At one time I 
feared for the kingdom. You have again earned 
the gratitude of your King and your country. 

Sir Robert. Tut, my dear boy. We were better 
prepared for the rebels and traitors than even the 
friends of the government knew. [Taking papers 
and writing.] So much for Sir Percy Campbell, 
who is to be executed to-morrow; [Signing other 
papers] here is a batch of the others ; — ah ! Lord 
Haxton is to have the honour of being beheaded 
on Tower Hill, a special favour. 

Selwyn. His lordship must be infinitely obliged 
to the government for the privilege of the block 
instead of the halter. What is the news from the 
N"orth, Sir Robert? 

Sir Robert. The Duke of Cumberland is ex- 
pected to come up with the rebels in about a week 
or two. All danger, if any ever existed, is now 
over. We have now only to deal with the bands 
of traitors and conspirators at home. 

Selwyn. The courts and the House of Lords 
37 



38 HORACE WALPOLE 

are kept pretty busy nowadays. How many in all 
were arrested here in London? 

Sir Robert. Some forty or fifty noblemen and 
gentlemen were implicated in this projected rising 
in London, including several members of the 
House of Commons and one peer. Of these, sev- 
eral escaped, but all the important members of the 
conspiracy were taken. 

Selwyn. You mean, of course, those into whose 
hands Horace had fallen when Captain Conway 
arrested Lord Carlington's party? 

Sir Robert. They were by far the most dan- 
gerous, and the heads of the conspiracy in London. 

Selwyn. Strange that Horace should have been 
in Lord Carlington's house at such a critical mo- 
ment. 

Sir Robert. Hush ! The less said of that the 
better. Remember, Selwyn, you are his friend — 
and Horace is only as yet a boyish Quixotic 
dreamer. 

Selwyn. I suspect. Sir Robert, that the bright 
eyes of the old Jacobite's daughter were the mag- 
net that drew Horace into that nest of traitors. 
To think that Horace, the student, the scholar, 
amid his books and pictures, should lose his heart 
to a fair rebel 

Sir Robert. Your bookish men are the most 
susceptible to female wiles. They see everything 
through the charmed medium of their own imagi- 
nation. But Horace's eyes will now be opened, 
especially as the old traitor of a father of this girl 



ACT III 39 

will soon be sent to his final account. [Enter Ches- 
terfield.] 

Chesterfield. Sir Robert, your servant. How 
is Mr. Selwyn? [Shakes hands.] 

Selwyn. Has the House of Lords finished the 
trial of Lord Carlington ? 

Chesterfield. It is all over, gentlemen. The 
guilt of Lord Carlington was so clear that even 
his friends did not venture to defend him very 
strenuously. All the peers voted guilty except the 
few disaffected Jacobite lords who abstained from 
voting. 

Sir Robert. And the sentence ? 

Chesterfield. Death on the block on Tower Hill 
unless His Majesty should see fit to extend to him 
the royal clemency of banishment instead. 

Sir Robert. That is practically excluded. The 
King cannot pardon a traitor who conspired to de- 
throne him and to plunge the country into the 
horrors of a civil war. The decision will take its 
course. 

Selwyn. I can only approve your view. Sir 
Robert. 

Chesterfield. He deserves his fate. My only 
sympathy is for his fair daughter. 

Sir Robert. He should have thought of that be- 
fore plotting to seize the Tower, the City and the 
person of His Majesty — besides, his daughter is 
as fanatical a Jacobite as he is — her sex alone has 
protected her from her father's fate. [Enter Hor- 
ace.] Ah, Horace, you come in time to hear that 



40 HORACE WALPOLE 

the ringleader of the band that offered you violence 
several weeks ago has been condemned to the 
block; I mean^ of course, Lord Carlington. 

Horace [Quieily'\. So I have heard, the news 
has sped very fast. 

Sir Robert. You seem sad about it, Horace. 

Horace. I cannot rejoice over the misfortunes 
of others. 

Selwyn. Not over those who would probably 
have murdered you when they had you in their 
hands and you attempted to escape them ? 

Horace \^Quietly^. I am not so sure of that, 
They merely wished to keep me a temporary pris- 
oner. 

Chesterfield. Or kill you if you attempted to 
escape. 

Sir Robert. Why, Horace, you surely are not 
going to waste your sympathy on a hardened old 
conspirator, the enemy of your king and of this 
free constitution ? 

Horace. Blood enough has already been shed. 

Sir Robert. Had these villainies succeeded, our 
positions, our estates, even our lives, would have 
been at the mercy of their rapacious followers. 

Horace. But they did not succeed, and perhaps 
a little mercy 

Sir Robert. Mercy — what nonsense ! The only 
mercy we could have expected from them is the 
mercy they now receive. They wanted our heads 
— now we take theirs. 



ACT III 41 

Selwyn. How did Carlington receive his sen- 
tence ? 

Chesterfield. He merely bowed and thanked 
their lordships. 

Horace. At least he is not a coward. Has he 
no chance of the royal clemency ? 

Sir Robert. Royal clemency! What stuff you 
are talking, my boy. No power can save this arch- 
plotter. Blacker treason was never attempted. No 
one could intercede openly in his behalf without 
ruin. Nor would His Majesty hear of mercy to 
one who would have dethroned him. 

Chesterfield. His doom is sealed and will close 
the long chapter of plot and treason for that worth- 
less family, the Stuarts. 

Sir Robert. You are right, my lord. The king- 
dom will now have rest. [Enter Jenks.^ 

Jenks. Sir Robert, the Council of State is as- 
sembled. 

Sir Robert. Gentlemen, we must now enter 
upon the task of consulting on the various meas- 
ures which have arisen out of this affair. The 
Northern rebels, although hastening to their native 
glens, have not yet been caught by the royal troops, 
but their destruction is imminent. The task be- 
fore us is to unearth the various ramifications of 
this movement, to pacify the kingdom, and to pre- 
vent a recurrence of these disorders. [Exeunt all 
but Horace, who sits down dejected. Enter hastily 
Virginia, who throws herself at Horace's feet.] 

Horace. Virginia ! 



42 HORACE WALPOLE 

Virginia [In great agitation]. Yes, Horace, I 
am here. Oh, save mj father ; I know you can — 
or these wretches will murder him before my eyes. 
My father to die this ignominious death. Yes, 
Horace, my pride is humbled — forgive me for 
what I said to you — I am now at your feet, a sup- 
pliant bowed to earth, crushed ; I am almost mad 
with grief. My mother dead years ago — my father 
whom I love more than my own life — Oh, Horace, 
save him — save my life — for I am all alone. I 
cannot survive this blow, nay, I will not. If you 
ever had any love for me, Horace 

Horace. [Eaising her]. Calm yourself, Vir- 
ginia, dear Virginia ! 

Virginia. Horace, dear Horace, you will save 
him. Oh, promise me you will. I cling to your 
feet, the most miserable of God's creatures — a 
broken-hearted wretch. Pity me, and save my 
father from the horrid death that awaits him. 

Horace. Virginia, all that I can do, I will do; 
but I fear to give you hopes that may prove fruit- 
less. 

Virginia. Yes, Horace, dear Horace, you will 
save him. Your father can — he must for your 
sake. You will go to the King, you will tell him 
how noble it will be for him to be magnanimous — 
what blessings, what prayers, what gratitude, a poor 
orphaned girl will have for him. You will tell him 
that my own life is in his hands — my father's 
death can do him no good — he will leave England 
forever. Oh, Horace, you will intercede for him 



ACT III 43 

— ^you love me, do you not ? For my sake, you will 
intercede; you will help him escape from his jail- 
ers. Oh, I shall go mad — Horace, I beseech you, 
I implore, on my knees to you, Horace, save him, 
save my life, for I cannot, I will not, live if he is 
taken from me. 

Horace. Virginia, dear Virginia, I love you, 
my heart, my life is yours. What can be, will be 
done — I will speak to my father — I will even go 
to the King himself — only compose yourself now; 
it may not he, hopeless, 

Virginia. Heaven bless you for those words. 
Oh, Horace, how cruel, how heartless I have been 
to you. But I was blinded to everything but my 
faith in our cause. And now, I am orphaned, 
friendless, hopeless, with only madness and the 
grave before me. 

Horace. Do not thus abandon yourself to de- 
spair, Virginia. While I live you will always 
have one whose whole life is devoted to you, who 
will live only for you. If England is so cruel to 
us, we can go elsewhere, for I shall never leave 
you. But listen — I believe I hear my father re- 
turning from the Council. Step into this boudoir 
here — my father must and shall grant me what 
you ask. Virginia, dearest — hope ! [ Virginia 
steps into an adjoining room. Enter Sir Robert.] 

Sir Robert. Well, thank goodness, that is over. 
It was but a brief meeting of the Council, Horace, 
but it was at least harmonious 

Horace. In what, father? 



44 HOEACE WALPOLE 

Sir Robert. On the fate of the condemned 

traitors 

Horace. Then I suppose- 



Sir Robert. It was iinanimouslj resolved, and 
with the strongest insistence, that no pleas for 
mercy for any of the condemned traitors be enter- 
tained for a moment. Treason and rebellion must 
be totally destroyed, root and branch. His Maj- 
esty himself is known to be of the same view. 

Horace. It seems perhaps a needless severity 
now that they can do no more harm. 

Sir Robert. What nonsense, Horace! If the 
government took any other view, it would have lit- 
tle else to do but defend its own existence. This 
thing must be stamped out once and for all. And 
why, Horace, are you so lukewarm in this matter 
of punishing treason ? 

Horace [Changing his manner, and becoming 
firm'\. Father, it is time now for me to speak seri- 
ously to you of one aspect of this affair that lies 
on my heart. 

Sir Robert. And what is that, Horace? You 
surely can have no further particular interest in 
this matter, now that it is at an end. 

Horace. I have. Listen to me, father. You 
and my sainted mother have both been very good 
to me. My mother left me at her death an ample 
competence, with independence of all worldly needs 
for my station. And you, father, have favoured 
me beyond any of the reasonable expectations of a 
younger son. You have advanced me in public 



ACT III 45 

life, obtained my election to Parliament, have se- 
cured me public positions far beyond my merits. 
How grateful I am for this I can never tell you. 

Sir Robert. Tut, my boy; why speak of tliese 
things to me now? You know you have always 
been my favourite. Your older brothers are but 
like their weather-beaten old father — country 
squires and fox-hunters, but they care nothing for 
a public career. You are the one to hand down 
the Walpole tradition of statesmanship in which T 
have endeavoured to educate you. You have more 
brains and education than all the rest of them put 
together. But, Horace, what do you mean? I do 
not understand these mysterious hints of some- 
thing in your heart. 

Horace. Hear me, father. Several years ago, 
while in Italy, I met an English family in Flor- 
ence ; it consisted of an English nobleman, his wife, 
who was an Italian noblewoman, and their young 
daughter. The mother died not long after my in- 
timacy with the family lx?gan, and it was my sor- 
rowful task to console the young lady under this 
bereavement. Our friendship soon ri]x>ned into a 
deeper feeling, and when the father and daughter 
returned to England, we again met. 

Sir Robert. And you are still in love with each 
other — but what has that to do with the punish- 
ment of the traitors ? 

Horace. The lady of whom I speak is the 
daughter of Lord Carlington. 



46 HORACE WALPOLE 

Sir Robert [Springing from his chair]. Hor- 
ace, are you mad ? 

Horace. Hear me out, father. This unhappy 
girl is distracted bv the impending fate of her 
only protector, the father to whom alone she clings. 
If her father suffers death for his adherence to the 
cause of the Stuarts, this blow will fall also 
on her, and she will die, or what is worse, she will 
lose her reason. I love her, I believe she loves me, 
and I would save her. Father, you have never 
had cause to complain of my affection or compli- 
ance with your wishes. Grant me this old man's 
life, for the sake of his daughter, for my sake, for 
the sake of our love. 

Sir Robert. Horace, this is the maddest request 
ever made. Are you bereft of your senses ? This 
man tried to encompass a revolution; he has al- 
ways been my bitterest enemy; as you know, he 
has made more than one attempt in the House of 
Lords against my position. He has been a plotter 
and a traitor all his lifetime. He organised a 
plot to seize the King, which would probably have 
ended in the murder of His Majesty. He offered 
you violence in his house, when you, as is well 
known to me, attempted to warn him through his 
daughter. And now, you, from a foolish passion 
for this disloyal girl, make an impossible plea for 
intercession on his behalf. Horace, do you know 
what you are asking? 

Horace. I do, father, and you must grant my 
request. The life of this poor girl depends upon it. 



ACT III 47 

Sir Robert. If the lives of twenty young women 
depended on it, it would not be granted. Do you 
think for a moment, that England's Prime Minis- 
ter can venture to solicit a pardon from the King 
for a traitor w^ho would have dethroned him ? And 
if, for my long service to His ]\Iajesty, he granted 
this request — a thing highly improbable — could I 
for a moment hold my position as Prime Minister 
at this critical period ? Why, even my staunchest 
supporters would fall away and believe I had been 
bribed. But enough of this silly freak. Let me 
hear no more of it. 

Horace. And yet you permitted Bolingbroke, 
your enemy, to return to England and to live. 

Sir Robert. Bolingbroke had made himself 
harmless, and had paid the penalty by a long exile 
for his intrigues. But this man is a traitor, caught 
in a wide-spread revolutionary plot, condemned, 
and awaiting his execution. 

Horace. Once more, father, I beg of you grant 
me this one request. I love this girl, would marry 
her 

Sir Robert. What, marry her! You, Horace, 
a member of Parliament, the son of England's 
Prime Minister, marry the daughter of a con- 
demned traitor, a girl who herself was notoriously 
a participator in all those treasonable movements. 
Boy, you are mad. Would you ruin not only 
yourself, but your father, and ruin the public ca- 
reers of all your kinsmen? Would you have the 
finger of scorn pointed at you ? Would you have 



48 HORACE WALPOLE 

the world say that you, a rising young member of 
Parliament, with a splendid future before you, 
have thrown away your whole life for a Jacobite 
traitor's daughter ? 

Horace. Father, I care nothing for a public ca- 
reer now, nor do I believe that your own interest 
requires the death of this unfortunate nobleman. 
I am thinking only of the girl I love, and whose 
life I would save by saving her father from this 
ignominious death. Once more, father, I beg of 
you, give me this man's life. 

Sir Robert {^Angrily^. Never, Horace, it can- 
not be. He must suffer the punishment he has 
merited. What ! intercede for the head of a mur- 
derous conspiracy which my own watchfulness has 
baulked ! Horace, the subject is now settled. You 
have been the hope and pride of my declining 
years. Do not now, by yielding to a freakish im- 
pulse, make me lose faith in your duty to me as 
well as to your position. 

Horace. Very well, father, you refuse — then I 
must act alone as my heart prompts me. \^Calls in 
Virginia. Enter Virginia.'] 

Sir Robert [Surprised]. Lady Carlington ! 

Virginia [Throws herself at Sir Robert's feet]. 
Sir Robert, oh, have mercy; spare my father's 
life 

Horace [Raising her]. Say nothing, dear Vir- 
ginia. [To Sir Robert.] Father, you are the 
only person whose powerful influence stands be- 
tween this unhappy girl's father and the scaffold ; 



ACT III 49 

while I am the only protector this girl has left in 
the world. You have spoken the doom of her fa- 
ther, but I shall not let your severity kill this girl. 
Now hear me out, for it may be the last words 
that pass between us. Your political interest pre- 
vents you from sparing the life of Lord Carling- 
ton, but my affection for my betrothed will save 
at least her life. Yes, father, on the day her fa- 
ther is executed, I, the son of England's Prime 
Minister, will marry the daughter of this traitor! 
[Pause.] 

Virginia. Oh, Sir Robert, you cannot, you will 
not permit my father to die this shameful death. 
You will be merciful, you will listen to an orphan's 
prayer 

Sir Robert [Firmly, hut without sternness, mo- 
tioning her to a chair]. Young lady, you young 
people are governed by your feelings, and do not 
understand the hard facts of life. I am now an 
old man, and have learned in the hard life of a 
statesman how bitter is the awakening of those 
who follow their passions and not their reason. 
We plan and contrive with our hearts, but the facts 
of life undeceive us. Your father, you know, en- 
gaged in a conspiracy in a cause that failed and is 
condemned to pay the penalty. Even if I would, 
I could not procure for him a pardon [Slowly]^ 
although there may be a possible outlet. 

Virginia. Oh, you will save him; I know you 
will; you cannot be insensible to the tears of a 
lonely orphan. 



50 HOKACE WALPOLE 

Sir Robert. A pardon or any other act of pub- 
lic clemency is wholly out of the question. But I 
believe that, under certain conditions, which, from 
reasons of state, are indispensable, it is possible 
that your father may escape the fate which he has 
provoked. 

Vii'ginia. Oh, anything you ask of us will be 
done; we will leave England, we will promise, 
swear, never to trouble the kingdom again — every- 
thing, anything 

Sir Robert. I am aware, young lady, of my 
son's attachment to you, and it is not so difficult 
for me to perceive that his feelings are recipro- 
cated. Had your father been loyal to the House 
of Hanover, instead of spending his life in plot- 
tings for the restoration of the Stuarts, nothing 
would probably have stood in the way of your mu- 
tual happiness. I am sorry for you. Lady Vir- 
ginia ; I am deeply sorry for you — I am sorry for 
my son Horace, in whom my aifection and my 
hopes have hitherto rested. But the hard facts are 
before us. It must be clear to you, young lady, 
that I could never consent to your union with my 
son, without compromising my own position, as 
well as my son's. A marriage of the Prime Min- 
ister's son with the daughter of an executed or par- 
doned or fugitive rebel, would mean ruin for his 
father, when the country most needs his service, 
while it would mean for him but a short happiness, 
social ostracism here, followed probably by a vol- 
untary and melancholy exile in foreign lands — far 



ACT III 51 

from his friends, his relations, his country — his 
career ended. Would you, young lady, be happy 
long with the consciousness of having blighted his 
life? 

Horace. Father, you cannot mean this. Where 
Virginia is, there 1 can be happy. 

Sir Robert. Boy, you think so now ; others have 
also thought so, and the awakening has taught 
them that our happiness is as easily marred by 
the world's circumstances and opinion as by our 
change of heart. We all would be happy, but it is 
not written in the book of fate that we always shall 
be so in the way which we have chosen. Hear me, 
you are both of you' young; the world is yet before 
you, to each in a separate way. I think I have 
made it clear to you how ominous for both your 
lives would be a marriage between you, how utterly 
disastrous to my family and to Horace's career. 
I would befriend you in your cause in the only 
way that I can, under the simple and easy condi- 
tion I shall impose. Your father cannot be liber- 
ated publicly, but an arrangement can be made by 
which the authorities of the Tower will connive at 
an escape. A hint, from the proper source, to the 
guards, coupled with a hundred pounds to each of 
them, and your father has only to take a passage 
to France or to Germany. I can promise you that 
the pursuit of him ■^ill not be effective. 

Virginia. Heaven bless you, Sir Robert. 

Sir Robert. There are, however, these indispen- 
sable conditions. You must follow your father, 



52 HORACE WALPOLE 

and you and Horace must pledge to me your sol- 
emn word that you will hold no further communi- 
cation with each other under any circumstances 
whatever. 

Horace. Father, this is cruel. [ Virginia looks 
at Horace, then looks down; pause.^ 

Sir Robert. You have your choice now, Lady 
Virginia. Either you leave England and renounce 
all further association with my son, or else your 
father dies on the scaffold as a traitor. Do you ac- 
cept my terms ? 

Virginda [With emotion, after looking at Hor- 
ace], I accept them, but it is hard. 

Sir Robert [Rising]. It is best so for you both. 
In new surroundings, perhaps in Italy where you 
were born, you will learn to forget 

Virginia. Never — never ! 

Sir Robert. While Horace, amid the interests 
and activities of his future career, will also learn 
to forget or live down an unfortunate passion 
which could have been gratified only at so fearful 
a cost. Life's before him. 

Horace. Life has nothing for me now. 

Sir Robert. Tut, boy, be a man. Lady Vir- 
ginia here shows more strength than you. Have 
I your promise. Lady Carlington? 

Virginia [Tearfully]. Yes. 

Sir Robert. And have I yours, Horace ? Come, 
be a man. [Horace looks at Virginia and nods af- 
firmatively. Sir Robert takes Horace's hand and 
embraces him.] That's a brave boy. One thing 



ACT III 53 

more before I go. After the country has been 
pacified, I will see t.o it that at least a portion of 
your father's estates, now forfeited to the crown, 
shall be restored to you. 

Virginia. Thank you, you are so good. [^Vir- 
ginia takes Sir Robert's hand and kisses it.] 

Sir Robert. And now, bon voyage, remember 
your promise, and do not think me such a hard- 
hearted old man, after all. [Exit Sir Robert. 
Horace sinks despondently in a chair. Virginia 
looks pityingly at him.] 

Virginia. Horace, look at me. Are you angry 
with me ? 

Horce. Angry with you, Virginia? And for 
what? I am sick of the world, of everything, of 
life. A dream of happiness loomed up before me, 
and only now I realise what has been snatched 
from me. With you, life would have been one 
long sunshine holiday, with love and poetry and 
everything to make life beautiful. What will it 
now be without you ? Nothing. 

Virginia [Sinking at his feet]. Horace, dear 
Horace, do not abandon yourself to this gloom. 
You will kill me. We have loved, and with the 
purest love that ever inspired two hearts. Such 
love cannot die, even if fate has forbidden its frui- 
tion. 

Horace. What can I now be with you taken out 
of my life? The world to me only a vision of flit- 
ting shadows without interest or inspiration, while 
I shall be only an indifferent lifeless dreamer of a 



54 HORACE WALPOLE 

happiness that fate has withheld. With a bleeding 
heart, what care I now for ambition or fame or 
anything ? 

Virginia [With emotion]. Horace, my beloved, 
my life ! Oh, do not say this. We must part ; yes, 
and our hearts are aching, but let us both show 
that we have been worthy of such love. My own 
life in our new home shall be devoted to my poor 
father. You, Horace, have a noble career before 
you. You have youth, genius, birth, a lofty spirit, 
every noble quality that ambition can desire. Go 
again into the world. Let your talents and your 
exalted spirit lead you to the path of fame. You 
have not belonged to me only; you belong also to 
your family, your friends, and your country ; and 
they all have claims upon you, far greater than a 
poor, foolish girl whom you might have possessed 
and whom death might soon have taken from you. 
Be yourself, Horace. For my sake, take up your 
life again. You Avill, will you not ? Let my love 
be to you, not a source of passionate hopeless long- 
ing, but an inspiration to noble thoughts and great 
accomplishments. And then, amid the admiration 
and applause of the world, you will sometimes 
think of the poor, silly, half-foreign girl who will 
always love you and think of you and pray for you. 
Horace, will you ? [Horace nods sadly. Virginia 
rests her head on Horace's bosom; he hisses her 
cheeh. She taJces his hand and presses it to her 
hosom, and hisses it; then rising slowly]. And 
now, farewell, my Horace, my dearest, my love. 



ACT III 55 

[Virginia goes to the door, while Horace lets his 
head sink on his arm on the table; she looks bach, 
takes a small chain with a locket from her bosom, 
glides noiselessly to Horace, pins it on Horace's 
coat, and leaves the room.]^ 



[Curtain.] 



ACT IV 

Fifty years later. 

Scene. — A large room at Strawberry Hill, with 
pictures, book-cases, sculptures, etc., etc. 

[^Discovered : Horace Walpole {now Earl of Or- 
ford) and Henry Conway {now Field Mar- 
shal, and in military costume) ; a small table 
with bottle and glasses.] 

Horace. Well, my dear Marshal Conway. 

Conway. Well, my dear Lord Orford. 

Horace. How often am I to tell you that I do 
not wish you to address me in that way? Plain 
Horace to you. 

Conway. How often am I to remind you that I 
do not wish you to address me in that way. Plain 
Harry to you, old fellow. 

Horace. There is a difference. When I call 
you Marshal, I only give myself the pleasure of 
reminding you as well as myself that your titles 
and honours have been won in the gallant service 
of your country, and are but a moderate reward 
of your merits, while my own title is what? An 
accident, only the result of domestic bereavement, 
the death of the last of my elder brothers and my 
nephew 

Conway. You old hypocrite, you! You wish 
56 



ACT IV 57 

to be called Horace in order to make me feel older, 
when you know we are both on the shady side of 
the seventies. 

Horace [Sadlij]. Yes, Harry, we are both dead 
and buried, fossil relics of past ages, shadows flit- 
ting about. If we live much longer, we shall prob- 
ably save funeral expenses by not dying, but sim- 
ply evaporating away into thin air. 

Conway. Horace, your ante-mortem funeral 
and evaporation theory excites only my extreme 
contempt. [Filling a glass and slapping Horace 
on the shoulder]. Here's to ten years more of a 
jolly green old age. [They drink.] 

Horace. What a world this is. I have just been 
thinking of all that has happened during the last 
fifty years. We seem to have lived centuries. 

Comuay. What do you expect. Do you think 
the world will stand still to accommodate a trio of 
superannuated old fossils, like you and me and 
Selwyn? 

Horace. It has moved rather too fast for me. 
Tiiink of it; Canada conquered, India and Aus- 
tralia British possessions; our splendid American 
colonies now a flourishing young republic under a 
ruler who has more kingly qualities than most 
monarchs of Europe ever had. The French Revo- 
lution 

Conway. Well, what more do you want ? This 
world would be a pretty dull place if nothing un- 
usual ever happened. 

Horace. As you are my general purveyor of 



58 HORACE WALPOLE 

gossip and news, tell me, what are the last reports 
from the war? 

Conway. The French republic has formed a 
new constitution, the third — the Royalists have 
been ever^^where crushed, the Austrians and Prus- 
sians everywhere defeated by the Republican gen- 
erals. By the way, that young fellow, General 
Bonaparte, who drove us from Toulon, is now 
commander-in-chief of the French army. 

Horace. A boy of twenty-five! But all their 
generals are boys. The age of old men is over, 
Harry. 

Conway. That boy, as you call him, is likely to 
give us trouble enough yet. He seems to con- 
duct campaigns and organise battles in complete 
defiance of the classical principles of warfare. 

Horace. So did Frederick, so did Marlborough. 
The innovators always win when they meet the old 
fogeys. That is a lesson we shall yet have to 
learn. What other news have you ? 

Conway. Rumour has it that the widow of 
Prince Charles, the Young Pretender, is now the 
wife, or something like it, of the poet Alfieri. Af- 
ter his hair-brained expedition in '45, he finally 
drank himself to death, as you know. 

Horace. That expedition of the Young Pre- 
tender! How often I have cursed it! But for 
that, I might have — but all that is now dead and 
buried. 

Conway. What ? 



ACT IV 59 

Horace. Never mind. [Rings a hell. Enter 
JenJcs, old servant.] Call Mr. Sehvyn. 

Jenks. Mr. Selwyn is showing a lady visitor 
the picture gallery. [Exit.] 

Horace. Oh, I forgot. 

Conway. A lady visitor ; who is she ? 

Horace. Oh, some Italian coimtess. These vis- 
its to Strawberry Hill to see my pictures and rari- 
ties are common enough. Whenever Selwyn stops 
with me, he does the honours of the house. He is 
stronger in his legs than I am. [Enter Selwyn, es- 
corting Virginia. ] 

Selwyn. Permit me to present you to the 
Countess Castelnovo, Lord Orford, Marshal Con- 
way. 

Horace. [Not recognizing Virginia.] I am 
delighted to welcome you, madam, to my retreat. 
I hope that my friend Mr. Selwyn, who is much 
more vigorous for his years than I am, and who 
serves as a guide here, has been agreeable to you. 
He was a great beau in his younger days. 

Virginia. The fame of Mr. George Selwyn, for 
gallantry is almost as great as that of his friend, 
the Earl of Orford, as an author and connoisseur 
of art. 

Horace. You flatter me, Countess. I have 
been but an idle dabbler in literature and a trifler 
in the realm of art and antiquity. 

Conivay. Countess, you must not take his lord- 
ship's modesty too seriously. He has written 
enough to fill a library. 



60 HORACE WALPOLE 

Virginia. And his fame as an author has 
spread over Europe. Who has not heard of his 
wonderful romance of the Castle of Otranto, which 
has kept all its readers awake nights, frightened 
out of their wits at its horrors. 

Horace. It is some comfort to know that my 
youthful nonsense has served to amuse young peo- 
ple. Thus it is in life : what we take seriously is 
looked upon as a joke, while what we intend as bur- 
lesque is taken seriously by our friends. 

Virginia. You pay a very poor compliment to 
your admirers, Mr. Walpole — I mean Lord Or- 
ford. 

Selwyn. If T were you, Horace, I should wear 
my laurels in the fashion my admirers dictated. 
What difference does it make whether they under- 
stand you or not? [On a sign from Virginia, Sel- 
wyn and Conway slowly withdraw.] 

Horace [Who has been standing]. Countess, 
will you sit down ? 

Virginia. Thank you. [Looking about]. So, 
this is the famed Strawberry Hill. What a beau- 
tiful place it is, a perfect fairy palace. And at 
last I meet its famous master, renowned over 
Europe for his talents as writer, the arbiter of 
taste, the restorer of Gothic architecture, the col- 
lector of art. For years I have longed for this op- 
portunity of meeting the most famous connoisseur 
in Europe. 

Horace. Madam, what you behold here are but 
the gatherings of a trifling amateur. We must all 



ACT IV 61 

have some occupation to kill time, and tide over 
the allotted period of this dull existence. 

Virginia. How could existence have been dull 
to one with such resources of intellectual activity 
as you have had around you? Have you not had 
ever;^i;hing that could make life one long holiday ? 
You have had society, fame, position, books, pic- 
tures — everything. 

Horace. Everything ? 

Virginia [Slowly]. Perhaps not quit© every- 
thing, but your amusing letters to my friend Sir 
Horace Mann, which he was kind enough always 
to show me when he was ambassador at the Court 
of Florence, indicated that your life must have 
been a happy one. 

Horace. Countess, the world is apt to estimate 
happiness by that which surrounds one. But hap- 
piness depends more on the spirit within. 

Virginia. True, my lord ; but such lively let- 
ters as your friend Sir Horace Mann showed me, 
hardly indicated a gloomy spirit. 

Horace. You evidently knew my friend. 

Virginia. Very well, indeed. 

Horace. We lost him a few years ago. He was 
one of two or three companions left to me from 
the days of my boyhood. But nearly all are gone 
now; only Mr. Selw^-n and ^Marshal Conway sur- 
vive. Strange that ]\rann never wrote to me about 
you ; he knew everybody in Florence. You speak 
our language so like one of ourselves, you seem al- 
most English. 



62 HORACE WALPOLE 

Virginia. I am partly English. [Pawse,] But 
one thing occurs to me, my lord. Amid all this 
magnificence something seems to be lacking. 

Horace. And what is that? 

Yirginia. I sliould have thought that the owner 
of such a home, with such treasures, and with such 
talents, would naturally have cared to share them 
with some congenial spirit. Excuse my freedom, 
but we Italians are so inquisitive. Have you been 
so wedded to 3'our books and your pictures that 
you have never, never felt you were alone ? 

Horace [LooMng at her sadly]. I have tried 
not to feel lonely. 

Virginia. And have you succeeded ? Think 
how much more beautiful your life and your home 
would have been had they been presided over by 
some woman you loved. Have you never thought 
of that? [Searchingly.] 

Horace. All but that I have had — what you 
see around you has not been a compensation for 
that one thing you mention. 

Virginia. But surely, it must have been your 
choice then to have remained single all your life- 
time. You have lived here in an intellectual para- 
dise without a companion. What woman would 
not have been happy to share her life with Horace 
Walpole? Tell me, my lord, others have often 
wondered why have you never married. Will you 
forgive my impertinence in asking? 

Horace. How can I consider an amiable curi- 
osity an impertinence ? 



ACT IV 63 

Virginia. Then, come, tell me. 

Horace. It is a story of a long, long time ago. 

Virginia. Was she unfaithful? If she was, 
she surely did not deserve you. 

Horace. No, I cannot tell you more, Countess. 
That story is buried here. [Touching his breast.] 

Virginia [Pointing to a picture.] Who is that? 

Horace. That is a picture painted for me by 
Sir Joshua Reynolds from this miniature. 
[Pointing to a miniature on the tahle.] It is the 
daughter of an unfortunate nobleman who was 
implicated in the unhappy affair of '45. They 
were obliged to leave England. 

Virginia. What if I told you that I knew that 
lady in Florence? 

Horace. Indeed, then you know Lord Carling- 
ton and his beautiful daughter Virginia? 

Virginia. Very well, indeed; they lived in 
Florence. 

Horace. I have never heard what became of her. 
I suppose she married. A lady of such singular 
charms must have soon made a suitable union. 

Virginia. No, she never married. She re- 
mained faithful to an early attachment formed 
under unfortunate circumstances, which prevented 
its consummation. 

Horace. Then T suppose she embraced a re- 
ligious life and retired from the world in which 
she was so lovely an ornament. 

Virginia. Virginia Carlington did not enter 
a convent. She inherited some property from her 



64 HORACE WALPOLE 

mother's family with another name and a title. 
Under this name she lived in seclusion, devoting 
herself to the improvement of her mind and to acts 
of charity. But every day of her life she thanted 
and prayed for him who, to save her father's life, 
sacrificed his own happiness. [Pause.] 

Horace. Is she still living? 

Virginia. Yes. 

Horace. Where is she now? 

Virginia. She is here! 

Horace. Virginia ! 

Virginia. Horace! [While they sink into each 
other's arms, — .] 

[Curtain.] 



JUL 24 1913 



